Overture – Let the Games Begin – Part Eight

Royalty Reforms

In God’s House, In God’s Love

Sister Caris did not think about her old
alter ego, Susie Johnson, anymore. She did not exist anymore. Not
even in the dark recesses of her mind, late at night in her sleeping
gown, which was the only place she ever felt safe enough to think.
She lived one moment at a time. Her mind was full of God, or work,
and her eyes always watched the keepers, as she did her best to avoid
their cruel encouragements. In the Cathedral, she joined the usual
procession up the main aisle, heading for what they called the
cellars, beneath the main seating areas, where the nuns would pray
for hours, visible to anyone visiting the Cathedral through the
grills set in the floor. It was the usual routine. She had completed
a shift at the hospital, returned for a shower and a quick feed
before heading off for prayers. She had no idea what time it was,
although it was light outside. Time had no meaning to her at all
anymore. She was either in her sleeping gown, working or praying with
a little domestic abuse in-between.

Pastor Nigel Brown looked up and watched
the Sisters marching past him, preparing to read the afternoon
service. It would be his first one in the Cathedral, following his
promotion to a position as an assistant to Bishop Osborne. It was a
promotion, a sort of reward for his efforts, but he had to admit he
would miss running his own parish a little. However, his new job came
with a fine house on the other side of the river near the hospital,
where he would be one of the chaplains, and he knew his family would
benefit from living in Meadvale. He also knew it was his big chance.
He would meet all of the Bishops, not just Osborne and Michael
Winstanley, and he would have many chances to impress.

Brogan took a seat near the altar. She
had not intended to stay for the service, but she was in the mood,
and Miss Derbyshire had taken India home, leaving her in peace. She
would be collected, of course. She had watched the guardian point her
out to the security guard at the doors, as if she was likely to
attempt an escape. It rather amused her. She wondered how far she
could actually get, encumbered by her clothes, without the use of her
hands and silenced by her muzzle. The first policeman who saw her
would check her FID, and that would be that, so Miss Derbyshire’s
attention to detail really seemed a little extreme. She had nowhere
to run too. Nowhere to go. Meadvale was her home. It was not a
pleasant thought, but it was still true. The world she knew was going
or already gone.

Lucy Slade took Hermione’s arm as they
strolled towards the door. Miss Lewis would be waiting for them
outside, and Lucy did not want to leave in the middle of a service.
She was in the habit of praying and, being so close, the Cathedral
was an ideal morning walk for her and her stepdaughter. Hermione was
such a lovely girl, and Lucy was already fond of her, and delighted
with her husband, who had been unfailingly patient, kind and
attentive. She had fallen on her feet, for sure. Even the guardian
was gentle and encouraging to her both her charges. She was close to
her own family, and able to see them, and she was as happy as any
woman had any right to be.

Charlotte Sullivan did not even know if
Miss Carpenter was still there. Holding herself still, despite her
aching muscles, she tried to concentrate on her lessons. She knew she
would have to answer questions on them later. Endless questions, and
all her mistakes would be punished with the paddle. Her breath hot
beneath her blinding mantle, she started thinking about her old life.
She knew she had it easy back then, with Dee pretending to be her
guardian, before her father went insane. But her mother was just as
bad, sometimes. She was like an ice queen, Charlotte thought, since
Christmas, since her father went quite mad, her mother had become
distant and cold towards everyone. It was all so horrible. How could
they do this to her? How could Dee just abandon her? How could her
mother just sit there and let her father do it to them?

Miss Lewis had been less patient with
Hermione Slade, but not much less so than Miss Scott, as Mr Slade
remained reluctant to push his daughter past the final hurdle. She
had been paddled, several times, and there was no doubt in Miss
Lewis’ mind that the maiden fully accepted her guardian’s
authority over her. But the relationship between Hermione and her
stepmother, and the fine example Lucy Slade set for the girl, were
new factors, and very positive ones. Lucy Slade had completed her
national service, and complete obedience was simply second nature to
her. She submitted herself totally to her guardian, and was
pathetically grateful for the smallest kindness whilst willingly
accepting every restriction placed upon her in God’s love. She
never needed to be punished, although Miss Lewis had Mr Slade’s
full permission to do so if necessary, and she constantly encouraged
Hermione to be a perfect maiden.

“God has blessed you by sparing you
national service.” Lucy said one afternoon, referring as she often
did to her time as a nun in God’s love, but giving few details of
her convent life. “Believe me, Hermione dear, you have such a
glorious opportunity here thanks to your beloved father. I think he
will be able to make you a wonderful match, with all his important
friends, but you must strive to be the best maiden you can be. I did
not realise it when I was your age...I suppose that is why we need
the help of dedicated professionals like Miss Lewis...and I did not
have the advantages you have. My time in the convent taught me to
love God as he loves me, and he has rewarded me for my efforts with
your father. You do not have to go away from home, and I do feel it
is my duty to help you, dear.”

“Oh...thank you Mama,” Hermione
replied, with a shy smile. Miss Lewis insisted that she call her
stepmother Mama, but she did not mind at all, because Lucy was just
adorable. She did not have a nasty bone in her body and she clearly
worshipped her new husband, and loved Hermione. She was only seven
years older than Hermione, and they were friends, talking about most
things when they had the chance. Especially the future, of course. It
was the summer, and Hermione was well aware that it was time to make
up her mind what she wanted to do. She had not discussed it with her
father. He had made it clear that she had to think it all through and
give it time. So she had, in great detail, using her time in Meadvale
as a sort of retreat from real life. It had been strange at times, of
course, and upsetting and painful occasionally, but Hermione
remembered how much she had pleased her grandmother before she died,
and how delighted Lucy was with her. Miss Scott had suggested that
she was something of a natural maiden, perhaps because her mother had
always acted like a guardian to her. Even during their regular, long
Skype conversations, Pippa was still trying to tell her what to do.
But in the end it was up to her, and she felt she had to grasp the
nettle and make some decisions for herself, for once.

So, she asked to see her father. He spent
long hours at his office, a new government building on the far side
of the hospital, just a short walk from the house, but he often came
home for lunch, and then always for dinner by eight o’clock, a
routine which meant he could always spend some quality time with his
wife and daughter. Miss Lewis arranged for Hermione to have some time
alone with him after lunch, in the garden, where he liked to enjoy a
cup of coffee. Hermione did not want to speak to him in front of Lucy
despite their close relationship, because there were things she could
never understand, and she had no wish to hurt her feelings. It had to
be between her and her father.

“Such a beautiful afternoon...don’t
you just love this place when the sun shines?” Christopher Slade
said, smiling as his darling daughter stepped out of the house onto
the terrace and performed a graceful obeisance. She was dressed in
the sumptuous velvet only the rich could afford, a cloak and gown in
shimmering royal blue, with only her eyes visible above her mantle.
Miss Lewis did not use veils for a stroll in the garden, but since
finishing lunch she had put Hermione into her mittens.

“Of course Papa...it is like home.”
Hermione responded as he rose to take her arm, looking into her eyes.
She behaved towards him as Miss Lewis had taught her to behave. It
always seemed right in Meadvale, and the formalities did not affect
the bond they had between them, or their love.

“Sweetheart, it is your home...I have
never seen you happier, and you and Lucy are a constant delight to
me.”

“She is so devoted to you Papa...it is
something we have in common, I suppose.”

“So...you wanted to see me?”

“Summer is here...I have been thinking
about going to college...not Princeton, but maybe somewhere small,
where I can be me. I’ve thought about it a lot, Papa...like you
said...and I would like to study art.” Hermione talked quickly, her
nerves rushing it all out, fearing his disappointment. She knew he
really wanted her to stay with him. “Mom will think it is a waste
of time, but it is what I love doing...even here, I sketch whenever I
can...so if you will support me...”

“Of course I will continue you to
support you, Hermione.” Slade squeezed her arm and gazed down the
garden, past the roses he had planted himself, and across the river
to the Cathedral, praying for courage. “I shall ask Miss Lewis to
make sure you have an hour or two every day to sketch...and we can
get you some paints too. It must not interfere with your lessons of
course, but I am sure it is possible. Needlepoint is an art form
too...all suitable hobbies for a maiden...I am sure we can work
something out Hermione.”

“But Dad, I want to go to college?”
Hermione pressed, staring up at him.

“No Hermione, you don’t...that is
just your mother’s brainwashing I am afraid...and as your father, I
have to be strong enough to take important decisions for you, because
you are not capable of making good decisions for yourself. Your life
is here, with Lucy and me, and eventually a husband and a family of
your own. This is your home. I know this is good for you, and I am
not going to argue about it, Hermione. You are staying here with me
to live in God’s love.”

Dangerous Liaisons

“She will mean nothing to me.” Sir
James Miller sighed, kissing the President’s ear with some relish,
and wishing that she would shut up and concentrate. But Sharon Rosen
was in a mood, of course.

“Oh just like all of the
others...including me,” Rosen pouted, turning her head away from
him.

“Sharon, you never divorced Leonard,
did you?”

“Of course not, a President does not
get divorced...not in office. Not even in the campaign preceding
office. For eleven years I have had to live a lie, and now that I am
finally able to get rid of the sad old bastard, you decide to take a
wife?”

“I think we both know it is not really
my decision to make.” Miller gave up on her and reached for the
champagne. It was still early and he could bide his time. “But if
you are serious, I can certainly appeal to the Prime Minister. If he
can withdraw from the Saudi arrangement without embarrassment, and
you were prepared to undergo some training to prepare yourself, it
might be possible. I am sure Radcliffe would love the ex-president to
convert to the Reformist cause.”

“Yes, you would love to get me into a
muzzle, wouldn’t you?”

“Sometimes I will admit to being
tempted, but leopards cannot change their spots. I intend to move
back to London as soon as the election is over...Radcliffe has
promised me the Foreign Office at the next reshuffle...and my Saudi
Princess is both a reward and a formal cementing of the friendship
between our two countries. Sharon, you know how it works.”

“She is probably young and pretty and
you will devour her like a lion eating an antelope.” Rosen flopped
back on the bed and stroked his back with her fingertips. She was
jealous. She was a sixty year old woman who had just spent eight
years leading the strongest nation in the world, and she was acting
like a love struck teenager.

“She is eighteen, and a typical Saudi I
would imagine. She will have been kept on a short leash there,
wearing her Armani and Dior beneath her burqa, but she is a royal, so
she will not be overly religious. I am arranging some maiden training
for her so that London does not come as too much of a shock to her,
and then I am sure I will devour her, but only out of duty and my
insatiable lust for power.”

“Shit, the things I have done for you
over the years.” Rosen sighed, closing her eyes.

“Out of love, I always thought...and
that need not change. Our opportunities are bound to be limited, if I
am living in London and you are here...but we are not kids, Sharon,
we will cope.”

“I gave you Colin Hughes and his
daughter, and the Hamilton girl...what have you ever given me?”

“My full attention, every other Tuesday
and twice on Sundays?”

“I often think about those two girls.”
Rosen said as he started to kiss her stomach, his tongue lighting her
fires.

“Sharon, you think far too much...”

“Do you actually know where they are?”

“Yes, I do.” He propped himself up on
an elbow and stared at her face. “Both of them are in a closed
convent, in Meadvale as it happens, and they spend their days begging
God for his forgiveness. I considered sending Mena there, but they
were really very tedious about letting her out again after a month or
three. It is a totally silent order and as they do not need their
hands to pray they are kept in mittens all the time.”

“So, we are going back to London, sir?”
Mena asked uncertainly, not sure that she had heard everything
correctly. As always Alistair was doing several things at once,
leaving her standing before him for ages, and it was hard to know if
he was talking to her or his telephones sometimes.

“What? Oh, yes, we are. I am not needed
here anymore...and actually I don’t want to be here in the run up
to the election as it might...compromise...my position once we get
back home.” He replied quickly, his eyes flicking from his phone to
his computer screen and then back to her. He had not asked her to
sit, and he had made her hold her greeting curtsey for almost two
minutes as he took a call, treating her with his usual disdain. “I
shall be working closely with the Prime Minister again and you will
play my perfect Reformist wife. No more days in the limelight I am
afraid...but I will let you breed, I suppose. But never fear dearest
Mena, Miss Robinson will be coming with us...I know how devoted to
her you are.”

“Is the King going to retire, sir?”
Mena asked, risking the impertinence. Her husband was impossible to
predict. Sometimes he would allow her to ask questions, as if her
interest in his business amused him, but some other times he would
explode and have her punished for her insolence. But she knew that
her father was going home too. He had told her, as he always did, and
urged her to be patient, once more. Not that she thought she would
ever have any power herself, even if Alistair did rise to become the
second President of Great Britain, after Kieran Radcliffe. That had
always been a foolish, immature dream, because she was just a woman,
just a Reformist wife.

“Yes, I think he finally is, and that
will mean a lot of changes in Westminster.” He stopped fiddling
with his phone and looked up at her, staring so intensely it was as
if he could see inside her mind. “Of course, that is why you agreed
to marry me, my little convent educated Rabbit, before you realised
that I could control you, and now just look at yourself? The stuck up
little snob who thought her brains and beauty could get her
everything she wanted...but God help me, I wanted you more. Curtsey
to me again Mena.”

“Yes sir,” Mena murmured, offering
her deepest obeisance.

“See how subservient you are...I take
it you are diapered?”

“Yes sir, as always.”

“Good...then fill it for me.”

“Sir?”

“Come on Mena, it is not hard to
understand, I want you to piss yourself when I say so.”

“Yes sir,” Mena whispered, closing
her eyes as she strained to obey.

“Back in London you will have no
independence. You have been useful here at times, to obfuscate and
confuse. But you are nothing in London, without me. I will make you
perform for me. If you want to be my first Lady in time, you will
have to earn it my little Rabbit...as your father has to earn the
right to hang onto my coattails. He used you to promote his career,
and I am going to let you watch mine. I am going to put you on a
golden pedestal and make you dance.”

“Why do you hate me sir?” Mena asked,
struggling to hold her position as her bowels opened and the weight
of her cloak and gown threatened to pull her down onto the floor.

“Oh Rabbit, I don’t hate you...I just
enjoy tormenting you...and just think of the decades of fun we have
stretching out before us when we get home. Now you may rise and
scurry along to Miss Robinson to tell her that you have disgraced
yourself. I am sure she will punish you for it...and always remember,
if you had been polite to me that first time we met none of this need
ever have happened...it is all your own stupid fault, Mena.”

The Abdication

“Good grief, he is like his father...he
cannot even resign without insulting someone.” Kieran Radcliffe
laughed, taking a coffee from his assistant with a smile. He was
watching the news, watching King Charles finally fall on his
ceremonial sword, at long last, although the delays had allowed him
to get his plans in place. He would let the dust settle. For a month
or two, whilst setting out a timetable for a presidential election,
just before Christmas. By the time he arrived at Broomwaters for
Christmas he fully expected to be president of the new republic, and
by then he would have his own team around him, free from the
interference of parliamentary protocol. He missed Peter Munroe more
than he cared to admit, and wanted Alistair Forbes back to fill his
shoes. The media was in a frenzy of course, but the monarchy was an
anachronism, and so was parliament, and there was nothing to stop him
winning absolute power. By then, he also hoped to have a strong ally
in the White House. Shap Nixon was technically standing as
vice-president, but Forbes was confident that could still change. He
had suggested that Nixon might have more influence in that role than
was normally possible.

But he would have to watch Forbes. Peter
Munroe was a loyal acolyte, but Forbes was potentially a rival, and
certainly a man with ambition, unlike Peter. He opened a secret file
on his computer, which Christopher Slade assured him was totally
secure. It had an ever-changing password, and was encrypted so that
if anyone ever opened it they would never be able to decipher the
contents. He added the name. He wanted to know all young Alistair’s
dirty little secrets, just in case he ever needed to cage the tiger.

Christopher Slade got the message in his
office. It did not add anything to his workload, as he had been
monitoring Forbes ever since they started working together. His
researchers were all his picks, trained by him and loyal to him, and
they realised that their careers, plus their large salaries and
bonuses, depended on total discretion at all times. They looked at a
lot of very important and powerful people, and discovered a lot of
things. But the royal family ought to be off their list at any rate.
Not that there were many of them left in the country of course. Slade
opened his VIP whereabouts spreadsheet, just for his own amusement,
where he had a royal workbook, to keep a track of things. In all,
eight women were in Meadvale convent, where they cost his former
majesty a lot less than elsewhere. He had donated them for life, in
God’s love. Most of the rest were abroad earning a crust by various
means, or sponging off friends.

He amused himself with the rest of the
spreadsheet for a few moments, and cross-referenced the lists with
the White nuns in Meadvale convent; well aware that it was considered
the height of Reformist piety. It was becoming quite fashionable for
a rich family to gift a daughter to the order. Beside the duchess and
three princesses, plus the two girls he himself had helped find a
home there, Natalie Hughes and Skylar Hamilton, there was a niece of
Sir Charles Buckingham, Archbishop Winstanley’s youngest daughter
and a clutch of major and minor celebrities whose lifestyles, and
particular proclivities, had suggested them for a lifetime in God’s
loving embrace.

The Princess

Fatima was not fazed by the appearance of
the woman standing before her. She was quite used to Britain, having
spent at least a month there every summer since she was a toddler,
and she was a Muslim, so covered women were as normal to her as
anything else. But this particular covered woman was going to teach
her how to live as a maiden, to prepare her for her marriage to Sir
James Miller, and Fatima was aware that her lessons were going to
change her life. She was not daunted by the idea of an arranged
marriage. She had expected that ever since she was a little girl, as
her mother and sisters had before her. She was, after all, a
Princess, albeit one of many Saudi princesses, and she understood
that business came before pleasure. But she had expected to marry a
Muslim, probably another Saudi, and live the life she knew in the
luxury of a Jeddah mansion, then spending her summers in London,
Paris or Rome, shopping extravagantly with the billions of oil
dollars her husband would surely lavish on her and her fellow wives.

However, that was not to be. Her father
had offered her to a British diplomat as part of some rather complex
international negotiations he was involved with in his role as the
Saudi Foreign Minister. She was his ninth daughter, and from his
third wife so Fatima had never considered herself a particularly
important catch, but she was a favourite of her father’s, and she
had hoped he would keep her close to home. But he had explained that
Sir Charles was an important man, and that linking the two families
together was vital for both Britain and Saudi Arabia, so she had
hidden her disappointment and promised him that she would do her duty
as both a daughter and a Princess. He had explained that she would
have to be prepared for her marriage. She was only seventeen, and the
wedding would probably not take place until the following summer,
when she would turn eighteen, so she had time to learn how to be a
good Reformist wife.

Despite outward appearances, she was not
a particularly pious girl, as her family were just not like that,
which was not at all unusual in the upper echelons of Saudi society.
She was a royal, albeit a fairly minor one, and her father was a
billionaire and a politician, so in public she was always the perfect
Muslimah, but in private she was used to enjoying herself. Beneath
her anonymous black robes and veils, worn whenever she left the
privacy of her own home, she always dressed in the latest fashions,
listened to the hottest music and generally behaved like any other
teenager the world over. Her purdah was like a cloak of convenience,
designed to give a certain impression, but she never felt restricted
or oppressed. Saudi Arabia was a religious country but the oil
dollars had created a class that lived above the rules for everyone
else. She was born and brought up as a Muslim, but she never thought
about it as a way of life. So, in that sense giving up her religion
for her new husband was not a huge issue. It was not as if she was
giving up something that was an important part of her life. But she
was aware of Reformism and what it meant for women in Britain, and
she was a little nervous. Her mother, no doubt trying to settle those
nerves, told her that it would be nothing like as bad as some of the
stories she had read about on the internet or heard from her
brothers. Kamiah Al Hussein reminded her daughter of the horror
stories infidels told about Muslims, and of course that was true.
Fatima was not forced to veil, or treated like some sort of second
class citizen, it was just what she was used to, and what she
expected, and she behaved like everyone else.

Kamiah had met Sir James Miller. He was
currently the British Ambassador in Washington and Fatima’s father
had taken all his wives to some grand dinner, and introduced them
there. Her mother had told Fatima that he was a charming man, in his
late forties, who had not mentioned God once. In fact, Kamiah said
that he seemed really very casual about Reformism in general and had
been the life and soul of the party. So once she was married, Fatima
would probably live the same sort of life she was used to living in
Jeddah, but first she had to learn how to behave. That did make
sense. Fatima was used to that idea of being one thing in public and
another in private. A British girl marrying one of her brothers would
have a lot to learn, so some sort of training was a logical step. But
she had read about British guardians and the small mountain of grey
velvet standing in front of her reminded her what she was there for.
She rather wished that she had put her abaya over her tight, knee
length designer dress.

“Hello…you must be Miss Freeman…I
am so pleased to meet you at last…the maid left coffee?” Fatima
gabbled, moving towards the grey mound with her hand outstretched,
ready to shake. Her English was perfect, as was her French, Spanish
and Mandarin, since a succession of tutors had forced her to learn
them all, alongside her usual music lessons, deportment, art and the
Quran, of course. Princesses would never work, at least not the rich
ones, but her father believed that his daughters had to be educated
and they were.

“Stand still, please.” Miss Freeman
said, her tone even but clearly intending it as an instruction, not a
request, not moving a muscle. Fatima frowned, but stopped in her
tracks, letting her right arm fall back down to her side. “I am
aware that you are inexperienced, Princess Fatima, but as far as I am
concerned, your education with me started as soon as you came into
the room…I am your guardian, you should curtsey to me.”

“Oh…sorry…”

“Silence!” Miss Freeman snapped, and
Fatima almost jumped in surprise. No one had ever spoken to her so
harshly. Not even her tutors. Not even her parents. “Clearly you do
not understand what you are…here. In this apartment, where we shall
live together until your marriage, you are not a princess, and I am
not your servant…you are now just a maiden and I am your guardian…I
shall decide whether you speak, or not…I shall decide whatever you
do, what you wear, what you eat, when you sleep and even what you
think…and take heed, maiden, because I will not repeat myself. Now
curtsey!”

Fatima obeyed, shocked into it, doing her
best to copy what she had seen British women do many times. She came
to London every summer to shop, more for jewellery than clothes, but
the sight of women curtseying to each other was a common one. Miss
Freeman, still completely hidden behind her veils and mantle, watched
her closely. It was not that bad for a first attempt, but her new
charge would need a lot of practise. Luckily her parents had agreed
to leave her in London, in Miss Freeman’s care, so there would be
no outside interference. Jen Freeman knew what Sir James Miller
wanted out of his wife to be, which was really what most Reformist
men expected, of course. Blind obedience.

During the next hour, Miss Freeman taught
Fatima Al Hussein the basics of her new life. She also introduced her
to the five instruments of torture every maiden had to learn to
endure. Firstly the muzzle. Muslimahs might be used to not talking in
certain situations, but being physically silenced was a new
experience for her. Not terrible at first, because it was not really
particularly uncomfortable, but as Miss Freeman did not intend to
remove it for several days, it would become so. Secondly the corset,
considered by some to be a fashion item, helping any Reformist lady
achieve the desirable shape, accentuated by her wide skirts. But that
was really just an additional benefit, because the purpose of lacing
Fatima down until she found it hard to draw breathe was to keep her
back straight and reduce her mobility. Maidens did not rush anywhere.
Posture was a sign of good breeding too. Thirdly, the mittens. Fatima
was a rich girl about to marry a powerful man, and she had no real
need of her hands, most of the time. Everything would be done for
her, allowing her to focus on earning God’s love. Miss Freeman
watched the girl’s eyes as she buckled the mitten tight, because
she realised how helpless she was. It was a good lesson for her to
learn, of course. Fatima had to learn to rely on her guardian for
everything in her life. Fourthly the cruel paddle. Miss Freeman had
dozens of reasons to punish Fatima by that stage, but she would have
done so even if the girl had somehow managed to avoid all of the
usual pitfalls. Miss Freeman always beat a new charge within an hour
of taking control of her, simply to assert her authority. It was
often unfair; her last charge had been the angelic granddaughter of
the Archbishop himself, a girl raised within the Church who had
already completed two years of intensive maiden training with her
previous guardian, who had only left to care for her elderly parents.
Abigail Winstanley was a delightful child, with perfect manners and
an obvious, genuine piety and desire to behave. Her competent
predecessor told Miss Freeman that she had only been paddled twice,
both times soon after she came of age. But Miss Freeman used her
favourite chair position and beat the child until she fainted, after
some ninety strokes. By the time she married, and Miss Freeman passed
her on, Abigail Winstanley had gone beyond perfect to entirely
automatic, the perfect Reformist wife.

Fatima knelt precariously on the arms of
a low chair, with her head forced down lower than her knees. She was
naked apart from her mittens and her tormentor intended to beat her.
She could not believe what was happening to her. She had been spanked
once or twice as a child, by her mother, but this was not a childish
spanking. It was a brutal beating delivered by huge swings of the
plastic bat her guardian wielded with such patent relish. The
terrified, horrified maiden screamed into her muzzle until she could
scream no more, and then Miss Freeman calmly introduced her to the
fifth and final torture of her clothes. It was more than being
covered, of course. Much more. Fatima had covered all her life, since
she reached puberty, and it was quite natural to her. But that was
all it was, a covering. Miss Freeman encased her in layers, the
humiliating diaper, the corset, a slip, layers of thick petticoats,
flannel legging things that could have been described as bloomers and
then a padded under jacket before finally enveloping her in a heavy,
thickly lined velvet gown. It not only weighed a ton, but it was hot
and hard to move at all. She stood before the mirror, her achingly
beautiful face and soft black hair the only parts of her left
visible. Then Miss Freeman picked up her mantle.

Maiden Training

Lucy Slade did not really understand
Hermione. She was only six when Sir Charles Buckingham first came to
power, and as her family had lived in Meadvale, Reformism had long
overwhelmed them all by the time she was really old enough to
remember. She had entered the order at the age of sixteen, and
although previously to that her life at home had not been that
strict, she had never considered arguing with her father or trying to
disobey him. After her national service, the thought appalled her.
Hermione did not seem to understand her place. Obviously, she was
aware that Hermione had been brought up in America, but she did not
believe that the lovely girl she had got to know so well since her
wedding day could ever have behaved so disgracefully. Miss Lewis
dealt with her, of course. Hermione needed to be punished for her
dreadful sins, and Lucy herself tried to be firm with her too, whilst
offering some words of comfort and encouragement when possible. She
felt that keeping Hermione muzzled was wise. It gave her and Miss
Lewis a chance to talk to her, without any further outbursts of
anger, and her lessons concentrated on duty and obedience.

Her dear husband did not take much of an
interest in his daughter’s punishment, leaving everything to Miss
Lewis. He had made his decision, and made it clear that he would not
change his mind, but he obviously felt that his daughter would come
to her senses given time. Lucy agreed with him, as always, and
promised to do her best to help. She hoped that the announcement of
her pregnancy might cheer Hermione, and the poor girl certainly
smiled at the news, but it did not change her attitude. Miss Lewis
seemed to paddle her every night, and kept her under the strictest
discipline. It was all rather upsetting for Lucy. She was so happy in
her marriage, and she wanted Hermione to be happy too. Her husband
tried to explain that his daughter had been abused in America, her
head filled with unreasonable expectations that still plagued her in
Meadvale. It was all quite absurd, of course. Lucy did not understand
why a girl like Hermione would want to go away to college. It did not
bear thinking about, and she had to be made to see sense.

“Up!” Miss Freeman commanded and
Fatima rose gracefully from her obeisance. She had held the
submissive pose for what seemed like an eternity but she had kept her
balance and her cloak swirled a little around her. It was much
better, she thought to herself, but probably not enough for Miss
Freeman. Nothing was ever good enough for Miss Freeman, who could
always find something to criticise her for. She stood straight with
her aching head slightly bowed and her mittened hands held together
in front of her. She was hot and tired, but she could not show it,
and Miss Freeman would not care. Maidens did as they were told and
their feelings were of no consequence.

“Dressed as you are, your role is
basically decorative. How you look and move makes an impression, good
or bad, and you must always remember that you are a representative of
your family and of your husband, one day. I can dress you in the
finest clothes, but if you stomp around like an elephant you will
disgrace yourself, your guardian and much more importantly your
husband. Sir James Miller is an important man doing such vital work,
and you must support him by creating the right impression of him at
all times. In showing respect, by completing a formal curtsey, you
must be elegant and graceful whilst managing your cloak. A little
flutter or swirl can be charming and can give a glimpse of your waist
if it is left open, something gentlemen like to see. It is quite
decent, you need not be ashamed of displaying yourself, but it must
never ever be blatant or suggestive. All your cloaks are weighted, so
dramatic movement is almost impossible, but you must learn to control
them as you move. Now again!”

Jen Freeman made her charge curtsey one
hundred times. It was hard work, of course. She could see the girl
was tiring and intended to sit her down for a long lesson, totally
covered, for several hours. She could feed through her tubes and
complete another silent day in her muzzle. Miss Freeman would not
allow Fatima her voice until she was under perfect control, and had
made significant progress with her movements. She had a whole year,
after all. There really was no need to rush.

Social Duties

Lady Osborne had to socialise. Her
husband had a team of Pastors working under him, and knowing them and
their families was important for his wife. Sebastian liked to know
everything about all his people, and Brogan was forced to give
detailed reports after visiting any of them at home. Not that she
objected, of course. She was a good wife. One thing Harry and
Sebastian had taught was obedience. She had only ever managed to keep
one thing from them, and that was her own mind, but even that was
under constant attack most of the time. She had never believed in
God, and she still maintained that position inside her head, even
whilst she was praying for something or someone. She was outwardly
pious, as a good bishop’s wife certainly should be, and inwardly
confused and conflicted, fighting all her lessons. Meeting Mrs Brown,
the latest arrival, she found herself quoting the bible, and leading
a short prayer before accepting coffee. It did not even sound like
her, and she had not intended to do so, but she was not acting
either. It came from within her.

“Such a pleasant house, Mrs Brown, I do
hope you will all be very happy here.” Brogan said, making
conversation as she sipped her coffee.

“Oh I am sure we will be...it is the
centre of things in a way isn’t it?” Megan replied, a little on
edge. She was happy that Nigel had got promoted, and Meadvale was
certainly very nice. Her boys were at an excellent private school,
paid for by the church of course, and Selena, and Megan herself, had
a little more money for clothes and the finer things in life. Miss
Donald followed Nigel’s instructions with her and her daughter to
the letter, but he was a reasonable man, and life was good. Better
than most she thought, and better than his sister, working as a
guardian in Washington of all places.

“Certainly as far as the Church is
concerned...and Selena has a friend here already, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, Hermione Slade...it will be nice
to see the Slade’s again.”

“Of course it will, and I am sure you
and Pastor Brown will be invited to dinner soon, and I shall ask Miss
Derbyshire to invite Selena to meet India, too. It will be nice for
you to get better acquainted with everyone. Meadvale may be the
centre of everything but it is still a small, close community.”
Brogan said, trying not to sound too wistful. She still missed the
buzz of London, and of being around the action in Westminster, even
if half the time she only overheard things of interest. Church
politics were not nearly so interesting for her.

Clandestine Farewells

“So you are going? Just like that?”
Sharon Rosen asked, hating the hurt in her voice.

“Do the people you intend to promote
linger on when you call them home?” James Miller grinned, flopping
down onto the sofa in his rented apartment, which he used for any
meetings that did not appear in his public diary. “Radcliffe really
wants to announce his presidential team, and he doesn’t expect his
new Foreign Minister to hang around...unreasonable of him I know but
there you are.”

“Your King has certainly put the cat
amongst the pigeons.” Rosen sighed sitting down beside her lover.
“I had a call from Radcliffe last night, and the election is set
for four weeks time. He isn’t hanging around, is he?”

“Oh the plans have been set for years.
It was just a question of time. The Royal family were such a
decadent, useless bunch something had to be done sooner or later.”

“Charles, you calling them decadent is
a little hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“Could be, except I have never been
caught, have I?”

“Not so far...and is the wedding still
on?” Rosen asked, well aware that it was. She could understand the
desire. Linking a very senior Reformist directly to the Saudi Royal
family made sense. Even if the Princess was hardly top drawer, she
was a favourite daughter of their Foreign Minister’s, and
British/Saudi relationships had never been stronger. She was jealous.
She hated herself for feeling like that, but she was jealous. If he
had asked her to marry him and move to London she would have. She
would have got divorced and joined him like a shot, once her term in
office was over. She would have veiled for him, in public at least,
and it made her feel angry. He had used her, just as she had used him
at times. He was right about that, and she always knew it would end
one day. It was not exactly a surprise.

“The Republic will be very different.
The House of Commons will just be a talking shop, the House of Lords
will cease to exist and, the senior team won’t need to be
elected...you know I would hate to lower myself to elections...and no
one is even standing against Radcliffe. And yes, the Princess is
already in London, preparing herself for me.”

“So, we will not be able to see each
other in London if I come over.”

“Sharon, don’t...this was fun, but we
have to move on, we both are moving on.”

“Are you sure?” Alistair Forbes
asked, ignoring the noise and bustle of the bar.

“Completely. He is cleansing his past,
like your man said...I got some good shots, and you have the paper
evidence, you have him by the balls.”

“Someone does, not me. I am out of
here. But you’ll get wired the money from the Caymans.”

“Cool, is it going to hit the press?”

“No, I doubt it...he can keep it all
quiet if he is sensible. And so will you...ok?”